


Proximity makes the Heart Grow Bitter

by writeitininkorinblood



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Amortentia, Hogwarts AU, M/M, surprisingly angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:47:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26470588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeitininkorinblood/pseuds/writeitininkorinblood
Summary: Lancelot had hated Gawain since he’d first laid eyes on him, and six years later he hasn't changed his mind.orThe Hogwarts AU this ship needs.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 63





	Proximity makes the Heart Grow Bitter

Lancelot had hated Gawain since he’d first laid eyes on him. The very first time they’d boarded the Hogwarts Express as scrawny first years, house-less and terrified and overwhelmed, they’d ended up in the same train compartment. And Gawain had been cheerful and talkative and within minutes seemed to have made friends with every other student around them, leaving Lancelot to glower from the corner. He didn’t understand how it could be so easy for someone to make people like him, but it seemed almost instantaneous.

He was sure the overly enthusiastic boy from the train would be put in Gryffindor, maybe in Hufflepuff, but never in Slytherin. The Sorting Hat had taken a minute or two to deliberate, but it had seemed confident of the house when it announced it with the usual aplomb. Gawain had seemed just as confused as Lancelot felt, but he wasn’t about to argue with the magical talking hat, so he headed down to the table decked in emerald and took his place, immediately making friends with the person next to him once again. Lancelot just wanted to scowl. How was it so easy for a half-blood, when he himself, pure blood and raised in the most prestigious sector of the wizarding world his entire life, hadn’t been able to speak more than three consecutive words to the same person all day. Jealousy coiled in the pit of his stomach.

There had never been any question of where Lancelot was to be seated. He wouldn’t have accepted anywhere else, and the hat cried ‘Slytherin’ as soon as it was settled atop his head. His smile was uncontrollable, but the thrill he’d expected to feel at being able to carry on his family legacy was dampened by the now all too familiar face of the boy with the long, dark hair and green eyes. He took his seat and let the final announcements from the professors’ table turn to white noise in his ears as the start of term banquet appeared before them. Once the speeches were over, everyone in the Hall dove into conversations at once, the din deafening. It made Lancelot want to scream.

A hand on his arm made him jump, and he turned to see the face he wished so fervently wasn’t there.

“Hi! We met on the train, I think. Sorry we didn’t get to talk much. I’m Gawain,” he smiled, holding out his hand.

“I know,” Lancelot replied coldly, turning his shoulder so he could ignore the boy who’d taken his place of honour at the table he’d been waiting to sit at since he’d first known what a wand even was.

Everyone wanted to talk to Gawain. He made friends instantly, across all houses and all years; even the ghosts seemed to love him. It only got worse each year, as the new first years spoke of him in hushed tones like he was from some kind of myth. And he was so infuriatingly good. He campaigned for better treatment of the thestrals, studied hard for every exam, got so many house points Slytherin would need to have been damned not to win the house cup. He was always in the common room or the library, surrounded by friends from other houses. The fiery, redheaded Hufflepuff. The gentle Gryffindor girl who snapped when she was mad. And then there were the boyfriends. Gawain had one or two each year after their fourth at the school. They’d go on dates to Hogsmede or sit by the lake or take walks around the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. None of them ever lasted too long, or seemed too serious, but they were devoted and sweet while they happened.

And Lancelot? Lancelot kept to himself, passed his classes with grades that were as high as or exceeded Gawain’s, but always seemed to require so much effort it ground him down to dust. He excelled in duelling and potions, and half sweettalked half intimidated the librarian into letting him spend much of his free time in the restricted section, preferring the dark words on the page to the beaming light that seemed to radiate from Gawain. His stomach ached to walk past him and his friends in the common room, his lungs knotted themselves together to see him kiss his latest fling. Although Lancelot was never likely to admit it, Gawain took up a generous percentage of his thoughts. The boy had everything Lancelot wanted.

Being in the same house, they couldn’t help but get forced together for lessons and, when they reached fifth year, prefect duties. Gawain’s appointment had been a clear choice, certainly, but Lancelot had been far from expecting his own election. A part of him was glad that he was finally doing his father, and their family name, proud, but he’d long given up on the idea of proving himself worthy of his father’s love. Not when all he was hearing from other men at the Ministry was how remarkable ‘this Gawain boy’ seemed to be, the Pride of Hogwarts, naturally adept with magic and already involved in wizard activism even as just a school boy. Lancelot couldn’t compete with that. He was too quiet, too introverted.

Gawain had tried to talk to him when they’d first started rounds together. He’d struck up conversations on everything from herbology to house elves, but it was difficult to have a discussion when the most you got back was curt, one word answers, so he’d given up. For over a year, they carried out their prefect duties in relative silence. Whenever they caught a student out of bed or skipping class, Lancelot was the one to bark orders for them to return to where they were supposed to be; Gawain would be gentle, more concerned, and check there was no genuine reason for the truancy before sending them on their way. It made Lancelot’s toes curl, the way his patience knew no bounds.

It was a potions classroom where everything changed.

The production and study of Amortentia wasn’t something that had stood out to Lancelot as particularly interesting, until Professor Nora took the lid from the cauldron and invited Lancelot, the closest student to her, to come over and describe what he smelled.

He’d half expected not to be able to discern anything, convinced his heart was firmly locked up in his chest where it belonged and not straying to anyone else. But as soon as he stepped up, he was immediately assaulted with a cloud of sugary sweetness, practically able to taste the sherbet lemons and liquorice wands. And then the damp earth of the herbology greenhouses, with their permeating lavender and honeysuckle. The woody oak scent of the Forbidden Forest, rich and inviting. The cool air of stone corridors.

So surprised was he to even be greeted with any scents that it took him a moment to link them, but when he did it hit him like a disarming spell right in the gut. Gawain. Gawain sharing sweets on the train, all those years ago; Gawain burying his fingers in the soil in herbology classes as he repotted a mandrake; Gawain looking most at home surrounded by trees and nature; Gawain walking the halls of the castle with him deep into the night on their rounds.

Lancelot was going to throw up.

He looked up from the cauldron with fear in his eyes and found himself staring right at the person who could be blamed for his current panic attack. Gawain seemed confused by his strange demeanour, but didn’t look anywhere near as guilty as Lancelot had expected. Because this has to be a trick. Some kind of magic a malicious student had found in an old book, designed to ruin people’s sanity and destroy their mind from inside to out. This wasn’t real.

Pushing past the gaggle of now-whispering students, Lancelot fled from the classroom, ignoring the shouts of Professor Nora behind him. He’d never been so grateful to be in Slytherin and barrelled his way back into the common room, so near the potions classrooms, within seconds. The trio of seventh years playing a game of gobstones in the corner quickly shared a glance and made themselves scarce, leaving Lancelot to fall to his knees beside the large glass wall that looked out onto the lakebed, resting his head against the cool surface and closing his eyes.

This had to be a trick, it just had to. Because Gawain was headstrong and too brave for his own good and infuriatingly charismatic and stupidly attractive and the last thing Lancelot ever wanted to do was love him. Not least because Gawain would hardly even notice if he did.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a whole lot of headcanons to flesh out this particular AU (to do with Lancelot's family and Gawain's perspective on things, and what happens post-the end of this fic) so if anyone wants to see any more fics in this AU let me know and that can certainly be arranged.


End file.
